


Lostmyhead

by come_qwattly



Series: Smoke Signals [3]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, also zayn's really into colors, it's really minor but i'm not sure if that's triggering for people, zayn has a little bit of a panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 06:14:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7746259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/come_qwattly/pseuds/come_qwattly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's hair is short and Zayn wants to stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lostmyhead

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to my beaut Ashley because even though hardly anyone will read this you took the time to do it first and it matters.

His hair is shorter. Way, _way_ shorter.

And that shouldn’t be what stops Zayn in his tracks in the middle of Café Habana on a Wednesday in August, stupidly wearing jeans and a leather jacket that’s making him sweat so badly his thin tshirt is sticking to his lower back, with his sunglasses frozen in his hands in mid-air. It shouldn’t be what causes the air to leave his lungs and the spit to catch in his throat as his brain was just beginning to remember how to say, “ _hi_ ,” but it is.

And Zayn’s a goner.

He swallows, finds some nerve in his brain to signal his body to move, to breathe, to function like a normal human being. Because there’s a boy sitting ten feet in front of him with eyes the size of the saucers his mum has in her cabinet back home and lips too plump to be ignored and hands and feet and arms and legs too big and too long to know where they are at all times ( _he’s going to ignore the way the table shutters and the water glass almost falls when Harry notices him_ ) and hair too-

Hair too short to be the Harry he left in the bed a long time ago.

He swallows again and runs a palm over his head to smooth out whatever hair he’s got left after this style change and sits down across from Harry slowly, so slowly it was almost as if he was making time move slower; and maybe he was. Maybe he wanted to sit in this moment for a few lifetimes s that maybe his body, mind and soul could maybe accept and comprehend and understand, maybe even fathom, the fact that he was sat across the boy (“ _bloody hell, I’m a man, Zayn_ ”) that once made his heart skip a million beats just by breathing on the same planet as him; but that’s bullshit and Zayn knows it because there hasn’t ever and won’t ever be a time where Harry Styles does not make Zayn Malik go weak in the knees with the simple act of existing.

The thought makes him want to puke.

Instead he grabs one of the tall, sweaty glasses of water and takes a long sip. And maybe it’s to regain his composure and maybe it’s to hydrate and cool him down from the heat and maybe it’s to calm his mind down because he doesn’t want to be the one to speak first. Because it’s awkward air that’s being breathed between them and Zayn is never one to make an awkward situation anything but a hundred times more awkward and he knows he shouldn’t say anything first. But he does anyways.

“Your hair’s fuckin’ short,” His lips are still shining from the water and a little drips down his chin as he speaks.

_Zayn Malik, ladies and gentlemen._

Harry looks surprised, maybe at the fact that those are the first words out of Zayn’s mouth or maybe because the silent trance had been broken.

“What? Oh-oh, yeah, yeah,” He’s rambling and blushing and self-consciously running his hand through his short locks, “S’for the movie, y’know?” He gives a bashful shrug and suddenly his eyes are flying all across Zayn’s face like they don’t know what they want to see first.

Confusion crosses Zayn’s mind before he’s nodding and wiping his sweating palms ( _Jesus, do they have AC in here?_ ) over his jean-clad thighs, remembering that Harry’s a movie star now. The whole reason Zayn’s had to sit around and wait for this nerve-wracking meet-up is because of Harry’s ( _stupid_ , Zayn would never say out loud now) movie schedule having him film on the other side of the world for months. But still. Harry was a movie star now; another stab to Zayn’s heart of just how much has changed and just how much he left behind.

“Right, right you’re a movie star now,” He decides and slides a smirk up his cheek when Harry blushes again, “congrats, yeah.”

“Thanks,” And it’s as small as Zayn feels.

And then it’s quiet between them again and suddenly or maybe it’s been happening the whole time, but the sweat from Zayn’s back is spreading throughout his body and somehow the room is getting smaller but staying the same size all at once and his hands are shaking against his thighs and his breath is coming but not going and he can’t hear anything other than white noise and static filling his ears. And Harry’s lips are moving quickly, or maybe Zayn’s just imagining they are, and his brows are squishing together like they did the night Zayn told him he wanted to write tattoos on each other but this squish is a different squish than last time and suddenly the walls are too close and there’s too many people even though there’s no ceilings and they’re the only ones in the restaurant and so Zayn starts running. And as the air goes past his ears he catches his name in Harry’s voice from behind him but all he sees is the exit and it’s bright and just wants out, out, out and then he’s in the parking lot and his hands cover his knees and this isn’t the first panic attack he’s had in the last year but it’s one of the worst.

He squeezes his eyes shut as tight as they’ll go and he tries to think of good things, of nice things, of wonderful things, of happy things, just like his therapist told him to. And maybe that wasn’t the best idea because what’s nice and wonderful and happy for Zayn means yellow and suddenly he’s not on his hands and knees in a parking lot in Los Angeles anymore because he’s on the other side of a yellow door that he painted in a house that he shared with a boy that owned his heart and he’s spraying paint over the walls because he can and t-shirts that he knows a long-limbed boy will wear with a grunt and a shy smile because he loves him that much. And he’s laughing and smiling and rubbing the sweat off his brow when someone brings him pink Lucozade and complains that the fumes irritate his asthma and that he’s “ _going to die between this and the smoke_ ” and if he loved him at all he wouldn’t smother his " _innocent lungs with the poison_." But then there’s more laughing and smiling and kissing and Zayn’s heart is breaking again and again and he’s choking and he swears he’s spitting yellow paint onto the pavement because suddenly he’s not in that room and not in that house because he’s dry heaving on his hands and knees in a parking lot in Los Angeles.

“Zayn!” Harry moves quickly around the restaurant workers that have crowded around outside, _because, awesome_ , and reaches Zayn just as he’s gathering himself to his feet, “Zayn, wh-“

And he’s about to ask Harry to take him to his room, the room with door, with the yellow door. The door that Harry hated at first and probably still does and is probably painted a thousand times over with a million different colors just so that he’d never have to see that color again. It’s probably not even there anymore because Harry’s probably moved so many times in the past year because that’s Harry but then Zayn remembers that he doesn’t know That Harry and that this is a Different Harry, one with short hair and thick muscles and a scruffy jaw and hard eyes that aren’t 18 anymore, they aren’t even 20 because This Harry is not That Harry and it’s all Zayn’s fault. And he just wants to be back in the house on the hill with the soft couch and the blue blanket that covers the both of them when they cuddle and the pool they hardly ever used because Zayn “ _still can’t swim, babe, an’ m’not doin’ it now_ ,” and the bed that was always so hard to leave in the morning but somehow Zayn found it so easy to crawl out of that… that one time except it wasn’t easy and it’s all Zayn wants, it’s all he’s wanted since he ever woke up that morning. But the words die in the back of his mind because the second he looks into Harry’s eyes, _and, Christ when did he get so close_ , he falls all over again.

And Zayn’s a goner.

Because it’s not yellow and gold rivers that Zayn’s swimming through anymore because now he’s running through a field of green grass that’s tickling his legs and he’s eating that stupid green kale that Harry always snuck into his smoothie (“ _honestly, babe, who eats this shit?_ ”) and he’s hiding behind a tree that’s bigger than he’s ever seen with leaves as green and bright as the eyes staring back at him and he’s a goner. And in that moment Zayn knows that he’s always been in love with curly hair that can never stay on its own side of the bed and long, pale limbs that never seem to know where they’re going unless they’re wrapped around Zayn and it’s in that moment Zayn knows that he’s fucked up in more ways than seven and he’s dug a hole for himself he’s not sure he’ll ever see the outside of ever again but it’s also in that moment that Zayn realizes he can’t live his life without having Harry’s stupid shampoos and tight jeans and expensive candles littering his world.

“I wan’…” He starts but he doesn’t know where it’s ending because maybe he can’t.

“You… you what, Zayn? What do you want?” Harry looks bewildered and his hair is sort of catching the wind in weird places and Zayn would laugh and tease him for never being able to tame his mane no matter the Style and then he remembers.

This isn’t the moment because this isn’t Harry with the long hair that tangles in the shower and gets lost in everyone else’s clothes. If that was him he could do it and even throw a tug or two in for good measure and it would end with kisses and shoves. But he can’t because that’s not this moment and that isn’t the Harry he can do that with because this Harry is hurt and confused and maybe Zayn gets that and maybe he doesn’t. Maybe Zayn isn’t sorry for what he did only how he did it. Maybe he misses Harry and the way he never let him drink alone and the way he always made a point to get under his skin but Maybe he misses the familiarity Harry brings. Maybe he misses the socks and the underwear thrown all over the place because Harry could never find much grace in anything he did and maybe he misses the fact that Harry slept naked with him but Maybe not. Maybe he fell in love with Harry the day he started wearing those headscarves and maybe he never stopped.

But this isn’t that Harry and he isn’t that Zayn anymore. They’re not the same gentle touches and soft kisses at four in the morning when they’re still asleep and don’t even realize what they’re doing. They’re not giggles and whispers in the kitchen when they smoked a bigger bowl than they thought. They’re not pouts and tickles when Zayn teases Harry for being such an oaf and Harry teases Zayn about being “ _this much shorter than me, look a’ that_.” They’re not what they used to be because now they’re yelling and screaming at two am because Zayn didn’t call like he said he would and came home late. They’re tears and chest-aching sobs and sleeping on the couch because Harry just doesn’t “ _understand how I feel! I shouldn’t have to spell it out for you this—this… I’m so unhappy!_ ” They’re cold stares and distant touches and hollow laughs because if Zayn is so unhappy he should “ _just go and find someone who better understands him if I’m so incapable of fathoming how you feel. If I make you that unhappy and that miserable then… just go_ ,” even though that’s not what he wanted and that’s not what he meant and that’s not what Harry hoped for.

They’re empty bedsides and dark circles underneath eyes and empty chests and unfinished discussions that were never started right in the first place. They’re everything wrong and Zayn misses what was right and he even misses when they went wrong and Harry is here, now and he’s staring at him like he’s crazy because maybe he is. Maybe he’s insane to want this and to wish for it and to go for it and that’s fine, it really is. Because right now Harry is in front of him for the first time in a year and it suddenly hits Zayn just how tired he is and how exhausted he is and suddenly his shoulders sag a little more and he just—he just wants…

“Take me home.”

There’s no sound for what feels like five years and then Harry’s letting out this big breath like he’s just as exhausted as Zayn is because then he’s nodding with tight lips and guarded eyes and he’s letting him into his car and then taking him to his house and letting him inside and it’s all overwhelming and everything is attacking Zayn’s insides all at once and he’s not sure what to do, touch, see, absorb fist but it’s happening and then he’s turning to Harry and it’s like he’s not even thinking when he’s asking

“ _Can I stay?_ ”

And he sees Harry’s eyes widen and he hears his breath catch in his throat and he watches the way he rubs at where he knows the words are inked onto his skin before he’s smirking, ever so slightly, and looking back up at him like

“ _Might as well…_ ”

And Zayn’s a goner.


End file.
